


(such selfish prayers) i can't get enough

by aduviri



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Penetrative Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aduviri/pseuds/aduviri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes she lays on her back on the bed and lets him come to her, his long legs loping across the room, his pace steady and his eyes a pressing weight on her body, on the swells of her breasts and the curve of her hips, the languorous lines of her legs. He slides onto the bed, on his knees at the edge, and he towers over her for a moment—not intimidating, but thoughtful, careful, (and here she smiles, feels her amusement dance around the corners of her mouth) verging on worshipful." Complete Lydia/Boyd PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(such selfish prayers) i can't get enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amazonziti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazonziti/gifts).



Sometimes she lays on her back on the bed and lets him come to her, his long legs loping across the room, his pace steady and his eyes a pressing weight on her body, on the swells of her breasts and the curve of her hips, the languorous lines of her legs. He slides onto the bed, on his knees at the edge, and he towers over her for a moment—not intimidating, but thoughtful, careful, (and here she smiles, feels her amusement dance around the corners of her mouth) verging on worshipful.

That last sense intensifies as he leans forward and slides his hands against her body, starting at the delicate outer curve of her ankle and up her calves, fingers a steady sweep against her Achilles’ tendon to the backs of her knees. He curves his hands, palms cupping the sides of her thighs until the tips of his fingers reach her ass. Something like a smile flits across his face for a moment, and she watches his features relax into some new, more tender expression. She very carefully says nothing and she arches her back just a little, enough to press into his touch, enough to say _more, now_.

He teases for a moment, leaving his hands still, before his fingers press and roll before gliding out and up, hands making perfect cups around the broad curves of her hips. They press up to her waist and then further still, sliding on top of her torso now, settling just beneath her breasts. She knows he’s feeling the rise and fall of her ribs, relishing the sensation of the brittle bone beneath his carefully controlled hands (hands that could break her, hands that will never, ever break her, not unless she tells them too, and she shudders, bites her lip at the idea of the power, the control).

His hands fit around her breasts, letting them fill each massive palm and press against his fingers. He thumbs at her nipples through her shirt and her bra, rubbing tight little circles for just a moment before he moved still further up until his hands slid from her birdlike collarbones to her rounded shoulders and then to the pillow, framing her head, strawberry blonde curls slipping over his fingers, wrists pressing ever so slightly against the side of her neck. He’s leaning over her completely now, parallel to her, and she smiles up at him, wicked and indolent, and reaches her own hands (so small compared to his) up to wrap around his neck and pull him into a kiss.

When they start this way (when she lets him worship wordlessly, when she lets him _take_ ), he kisses the same, and at first she thought it would grow tiresome. But every time—every time his kisses are like revelations, epiphanies that draw out quiet, breathy moans that feel like they’re pulled from the bottom of her feet. He kisses soft and open-mouthed, with a deep, slick heat that leaves her feeling exposed and empowered, that leaves her shaking against the bed, fingers curling against his skin. Their tongues slide together aimlessly for a moment until he bites hers, gently, and pulls away. She makes a noise, discontent, and he smirks at her. She narrows her eyes—but she’ll get back at him for it later.

He leans back on his knees again, drawing away, and her hands slip down his chest and his sides and fall back to the bed. He takes the first button of her shirt between his fingers and undoes it, fingertips caressing the inch of pale skin—and he goes all the way down her shirt, until it lies completely open and undone, pushed to the side and framing the taper of her waist, the dark navy lace of her bra. Her arms are still in the sleeves, but she doesn’t mind; she knew when she woke up this morning that she would be here, and she prepared. He smiles when he sees the subtly hidden clasp between her breasts.

He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to each breast, and then bites down and sucks around his teeth. Twin bruises blossom on her chest, a deep stinging ache that hums in her clit and makes her draw her thighs together involuntarily. She sighs in the back of her throat and shifts against him, pressing her body against his mouth. His hands press against the soft skin of her belly, fingers warm and firm as the move up and undo the clasp of her bra, even as his teeth still worry at her skin, now worn tender. He sits back and pushes her bra open. Her nipples are rosy pink and drawn tight, and he rolls them between his fingers, mouths at them for a few long minutes, drawing soft noises from her with careful flicks of his tongue and nips of his teeth. On some days, she makes him fight for every noise she makes; on others, she plays tit-for-tat, every moan of hers followed by one of his. But on these days—

On these days, she’s more open than that.

She squirms when the brush of his teeth becomes almost too much, and he understands. He kisses a meandering path down her chest, biting here and there when he finds an expanse of skin that he feels the need to mark, to own. She lets him, drawing idle patterns on the curve of his head with her fingertips, knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that her marks from yesterday are there just beneath his clothes. Her whole body is humming now, a constant low grade of arousal that shifts and changes and grows with every new kiss, every inch further.

He stops at the line of her skirt. It’s one of her favorites, soft material that falls to just above her knee and criss-crosses above her thighs, one layer of material folding and fastening over another. She wore it intentionally today, like her button down shirt, like her front-clasp bra, like the sandals she’d slipped out of as soon as she got home. He undoes the first side button, and then the second, unwrapping the first layer. He leaves the second (the final) draped across her thighs, the fabric slipping between her thighs just a bit, riding up the curve of her leg.

He nudges her thighs ever-so-slightly apart and slips a hand up and inward and settles it just above her clit. His fingers press, prod, roll against her and she moans in contentment, letting her legs fall even further open. He moves and resettles between them, hand still working. The other caresses her knee, and then the inside of her thigh, and then slides beneath her skirt. The edge of his hand presses against the line where her hip meets her thigh, sensitive, and the heel of his palm rests against the lower part of her pussy, close enough to her hole that she practically growls.

He laughs, quiet (more of a rumbling chuckle than anything else, and she will never admit that it makes as happy as it does), and grinds the hard heel of his fist against her, riding the soaked, wet, silk fabric of her panties, pressing it against her lips, spreading his fingers in a vee and molding the material to her. When he seems satisfied, then he uses his other hand to draw back the second fold of her skirt, and she can see the picture vividly in her mind—her navy lace-and-silk panties (soaked so dark by now) riding low, a stark contrast to both the pale skin of her thighs and the dark cocoa of the back of his hand, his fingers still spread, holding the material against her. She thinks it rather ridiculous how long he stares, but she supposes that if their positions were reversed, she would commit that sight to memory as well.

He moves from between her legs and slides back, hooking two fingers around the lace waistband and sliding them down, sticky wet material gliding against the curves of her legs and leaving her shivering, goosebumps rising on her skin. He drops them to the floor and is between her legs again as quick as imagining, his large warm hands soothing the shivers away, smoothing up her skin until he has one on the outside of each knee, pulling them apart and pushing them up.

He hooks one over his shoulder and slides the other even further away. He guides her hand and curls her fingers around her thigh, into the hollow of her knee, and she understands the message, biting back on a smile as she tilts her head back, eyes closed, and waits for what she knows is coming.

He kisses her pussy like he kisses her mouth—open, slow, hot, and unbearably tender. His lips press hers up and apart, tongue sliding out to lave at the slick heat, mouth moving to press against her clit, letting his teeth press on just the right-wrong edge of sharp against her hood. He kisses her open, soft and sweet and sinful until she’s trembling and gasping, her legs curling in on him, seeking to trap him there forever. He laughs against her, more open this time, and she curses, short and sharp, and pinches the side of his neck in retribution.

As if in apology, he slides further down, his hands coming up to her hole, braced on the underside of her thighs, thumbs holding her open as his tongue delves in and out, a shallow rocking that makes her moan and press herself against his face. He accepts the challenge (and he always does, and always exceeds, and she’s never had something that good be that constant) and he rocks his chin forward and presses in, stroking so deep, swirling his tongue until she screams and gushes wet into his mouth. Her thighs tremble and try to close, but he chooses the exact right moment—he always knows the exact right moment—and he holds them apart, rides her orgasm with his tongue inside her, thrusting in counterpoint, until she finishes.

But he doesn’t let her finish, doesn’t let her orgasm end. He turns his head and pushes in a little deeper, sucking as best he can at the edges while his tongue twists and turns wickedly. He slides in one wonderfully thick finger beside his tongue, working it in a steady rhythm, and the thumb of his other hand is rubbing tiny, tight circles on her clit, brushing against her hood, and she thrashes against the pillow, the down comforter, her clothes falling in disarray as she rides his face desperately, her voice a long and endless wail.

When he does pull away (when her voice is hoarse from calling his name, when her fingertips have left bruises on the back of his neck, when her entire body is wracked with pleasant post-orgasmic tremors), his mouth and chin are slick with her. She tries to pull him down, but her arms have fallen to her side and refuse to move. He knows anyway, and he goes to her and kisses her on her mouth again, long and slow and with an edge of emotion. She tastes herself on his tongue, on the skin of his chin, the curve of his cheek as she licks him clean. When he rearranges her (stripping her of her clothes reverently, setting them aside), settles her naked and sated on her side and curls up behind her, she presses her hips back.

She knows what she’ll find—what she always finds—but it’s still a bit of a thrill to her when she feels the wet patch of denim, tacky against her naked thigh. When she wakes, he’ll be gone.

But she knows that he’ll be back.

\--

And then there are other days where she goes to him (in her car on a dark night in late December with frost at the windows, or in his room at sunset in August with a breeze against her back, or, once, in the lacrosse locker room during their shared free period second semester of junior year), and she doesn’t say anything but he understands anyway, because that’s how they work—she talks in words or she doesn’t, and either way he knows.

(She asks him some nights when they don’t do anything but play Risk in sweatpants, when they eat leftover pizza and she ties her hair back—she asks him how. He shrugs, takes another bite, mulls it over. “It’s you. I know you,” he says, all the time, every time, and maybe she doesn’t understand and maybe she does but she’s just a little bit afraid.)

Those days she pushes and prods until his back’s against the wall or he sprawls out on a bed or a couch or a bench. She sinks to her knees, watching him from under her perfectly done lashes.

Sometimes she teases. She mouths at him through his pants, hot wet presses of her mouth until he’s making little aborted thrusts up, hips twitching and fingers clenching on his thighs, desperate. She presses with her fingers, trapping his cock under the fabric, watching the obscene bulge, kissing it tenderly, caressing it just enough to tease.

But other days she just gets to it, a straight line from the first point to the next. She pulls him out and pumps him once, twice (and he’s always hard by the second pass of her hand and she gets a heady thrill from it every time), and then she meets his eyes again and smirks, quick, before she takes him into her mouth.

She doesn’t know who made giving head out to be an act of submission. There’s nothing like that here. It’s control, a real visceral surge of power that makes her run hot like fire under her skin, and she toys with the head, little kitten licks before she bobs down and sucks, the weight of him pressing against her tongue and the roof of her mouth. She breathes in carefully, takes him in hand and sinks further until he’s nudging at her throat, until she can swallow around him.

She runs her tongue along the thick veins that slide against her lips, moves up and down quick and then slow until he huffs and shifts, minutely, beneath her (and there’s a thrill of triumph, of arousal, as she feels him harden just a bit more against her tongue). She hums around him, content, and—

He shakes with his whole body and moans like he’s dying, one hand gripping his thigh and the other curling (careful, always careful) around the back of her neck. He trembles, the muscles under his skin jumping as she smooths a hand onto his stomach, fingers brushing carefully before settling again at his hip.

And before it had always been—before it was always a favor, something that she would be given something for in exchange, something that she didn’t mind but didn’t enjoy, not really, too wet and her jaw was sore and the aftertaste didn’t really leave easily, but.

But.

But.

There’s something different here.

She pulls nearly completely off, mouths at the head until he’s murmuring pleas, his voice a bass rumble against her fingers, and then backs away entirely. He moans (displeased) and she smiles, presses a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss at the base and licks her way up, hot and slick until his fingers spasm on her neck.

She kisses at the head and then opens her mouth just enough to pop it in, just enough to swirl her tongue around it, and he’s stammering a warning into the air as he comes. She swallows and pulls away with a grimace, but he’s already sitting up and kissing her deep—and she knows it’s something he likes, tasting himself where before it was just her—and when he pulls away, he leaves his fingers to trace the line of her jaw.

(It’s this, it’s this that’s different: she doesn’t owe him and he doesn’t owe her, and she knows that he’s hers but it’s in those moments when he’s pressing tender against her neck and hard in her mouth, when he’s trembling to keep from pressing up, when she licks his cock and he moans—he’s hers. He’s hers.)

(And she’s his, too.)

\--

But this is always the best.

He slips a finger in, and she makes a small noise of dissatisfaction and he laughs and adds another, twisting and pressing until she’s pushing back on his fingers. He stretches (always careful) before the third, but she’s impatient and demanding, sinking down onto it like it’s her right and giving him a happy sigh. He sucks at a nipple almost absently, laving over it with little licks and pressing his teeth against it until she shudders. He does the same to the other, at least until she presses at his chin with two fingers, tilts his head up so she can kiss him.

She pushes him back when she decides the kissing is done, shoves at his shoulders, but he kisses her again instead. She smiles against his mouth, twists her leg around his thigh, and flips them with a lithe twist that leaves his head spinning and his dick twice as hard.

She eases his fingers out, tossing her head back to flick her hair over her shoulders, and she looks like a queen as she rises on her knees above him astride his hips. She laughs on a quiet exhale and reaches down to hold him steady.

She slides down and he exhales like he’s been punched in the gut, violent and sharp. His hands clench on her hips, deep enough to leave bruises against her skin, and she smirks and digs her nails into his chest. His hips make an aborted jump up, quick and hard before he settles back onto the mattress.

She leans back until she’s sitting completely on top of him, until her ass is pressed to his thighs, until she can feel him completely inside her. She’s still breathing in short, quick gasps as she rolls her hips and reaches down to press two fingers to her clit—but he gets there first, two hot, thick fingers against her clit, sliding and pressing, a sweet quick rhythm that sets her thighs trembling before she even starts to move.

It starts with rocking, gentle at first, just little flicks of her hips that make him twitch inside her, that make his hips thrust up in tiny little motions (and she feels his thighs tense and relax under her, like he’s fighting himself, like he’s trying for control, and it’s amazing)—and then she builds and builds until the sting of discomfort and the tenderness are both gone, until she can feel herself dripping, soaking wet against his skin.

Then she leans forward, hands bracketing his head, the tips of her nipples trailing against his skin, and she kisses him, open and messy and languid, before she rises up on her knees until just his head is pressed, flush, against her hole. She teases both of them like that for a minute, his fingers stuttering against her clit, her own teasing at her nipples (flushed dark and hard, sensitive), just bounces lightly on the head of his cock before she sinks back down without warning.

He moans, audible this time instead of just a steady hum in his chest, and one hand clutches at her hip. He pinches her clit and she cries out, bucks against him frantically for just a second before she’s in control again, rising and falling first quick and then slow until he grows in frustration, takes both of her hips in his hands, and rolls them until she’s laid out beneath him, strawberry hair spread out onto the pillowcase, cheeks flushed, eyes dark. He leans back, condom-covered cock slick with her, and just looks for a moment.

She tilts her chin back, as though considering him, and cocks an eyebrow in a clear challenge. He laughs, low in his throat, and leans in to kiss her and to take her thighs in his hands, pressing her legs open, hitching one up around his waist as he lines up and slides in, deeper at this angle, and her breath stutters and she gasps, arches up into him.

He starts slow, waits until she’s writhing, her hands clawing at his shoulders and her hips canting up into his incessantly, until she’s practically dripping with want—he waits until just then to speed up, to lean into her and bend her (and she’s pliable for him here because she wants to be, she _wants_ ), curve her waist up. Her other leg wraps around his waist and he has to brace a hand against the headboard to keep them from crashing into it, their bodies sliding up the mattress with the force of his thrusts.

She twists herself up, hand twisted in the sheets, to kiss him, to lick the sweat from the line of his neck and to bite his skin hard, to moan against the cords of his shoulders as she arches up—and she slams back onto the pillows, her back bowing up, her body a taut and gorgeous impossible curve as she comes around him, screaming out into the air, so tight and so hot and so right that he can’t stop, can’t, and he comes as he presses his face into her chest and moans out his orgasm against her breast.

They come down together, panting, slick with sweat, and when he pulls out she winces. He kisses her then, open-mouthed and obscene andsweet, and he pulls the condom off and ties it, drops it over the bed for later.

For now, he snags the blanket from the foot of the bed and drapes it over them. For now, he slides up next to her and gathers her hair away from her face, brushes a stray drop of sweat from her cheek and kisses her throat. She smiles, open and too-big and entirely perfect, and presses her forehead to his. They breathe together and settle their legs between the other’s and he’s the one who laces their fingers together but she’s the one who squeezes his hand tight.


End file.
